Blue, Grey and Unconventional
by FairyLightsAndGlitter
Summary: "He lay down on the grass beside her, close enough that if both reached across, they'd be holding hands. This didn't happen, though, because as Rose had always said, it was best to leave real things undone." A set of Rose/Scorpius oneshots, varying in length and not always with the same characterisation but always with this pairing.
1. Stars

Running from the castle and across the grass barefoot and holding hands, the couple stop for a second to catch their breath. It is then that the redheaded girl looks up at the night sky and, sighing to herself at the beauty of the stars above her. She immediately lies down on her back to look up at the clear sky. The blonde haired boy sees what she's doing and grins to himself, this isn't the first time she has been sidetracked by the beautiful. He lies on the grass beside her, close enough that if both reached across, they could be holding hands. They don't, though, and that is the key thing. Both know that if they are to hold hands in this relative calm, so different from the usual chaos both happily fling themselves into, that it will come to mean something more than their usual hand holding for necessity, for running away and for playing and for nothing deeper than that. And so the two of them lie a little way away from each other, drinking in the starlight, both trying really really hard not to gaze at the other. Hesitantly, the boy turns his head just slightly so that he's facing her profile:

"We are made of stardust, you know? I learnt that once in Muggle Studies, when they were giving us Muggle Science lessons. We are made of stardust and so is basically everything in the world. I know that stars really are just balls of gas slowly burning themselves out, but I can't seem to help romanticising stars..." he tells her, trailing off and waiting for her to fill in the gaps in his words, waiting for her hear all the unsaid things and to respond with still more of those words that cannot be verbalised. She does just this and he smiles as he listens to her speak:

"I know what you mean, there's just something about them, something so wordlessly beautiful about them, about the way the universe stretches out forever, about the galaxies and galaxies of these beautiful, sparkling lights. And something about the way what we're doing right now is so cliche and so overdone and yet so beautiful that I don't think I will ever find the words to sum this moment up." And the two exchange a small smile because they both know exactly the words she claims to be looking for and both know exactly why she isn't saying them. He takes a risk in his reply to this, knowing that to both compliment and challenge her at the same time can sometimes be like leaping blindly into a pool of water and hoping that it is neither too deep nor too shallow:

"I'm sure you will, Rosie, your words are as perfect and endless as the stars." In spite of herself, she smiles upon hearing him say this, because even Rose Weasley needs to hear nice things about herself sometimes, and it's even nicer to hear those words fall from the lips of the boy who means more to her than she will ever allow herself to say.

"They're far from perfect, Scorp. Anyway, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that sometimes heart-stoppingly beautiful moments happen and sometimes even the writer can't find the words, so they're far from endless too." And she isn't really talking about speechlessness, or about writer's block, and he knows this. Both know that the words are there, that they could so easily use them, that they could ever so easily fall into them and hide within them, blanketing themselves in their proclamations and their final honesty.  
It would be final, though, and that is why neither is prepared to use the words both know the other is thinking almost all the time when they are together and apart. Neither can bear to take the risk that once the words are said, there will be no words left at all. At seventeen years old, she wrote stories and he was a poet and neither can bear the thought of running out of words. At seventeen years old, Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy are desperately in love and yet too afraid to say it.


	2. Fire

She's the spark that starts the fire; the life of the party. She's there and she's there and she's just about everywhere. But is she really totally there? That's what he wonders sometimes when he looks at her as she leaps and twirls and looks more on fire than he could ever have believed possible.  
She is unmissable and unforgettable. She is fireworks and sunsets. She is laughter and noise and a constant source of action. But again, he asks himself whether she's really there at all. Because there's just something about her eyes, so dead and cold whilst the rest of her is so clearly on fire. But despite the ice in her eyes, she is undoubtedly still far more fiery than anybody he's ever seen.  
And fire burns itself out eventually, once it's finished both dazzling and devastating everything in its path. That was a good way to describe how she changed all those around her- she dazzled them with her unstoppable light but then they realised that they were also on fire and close to burning out.  
So the fire continued to spread, causing loss and destruction to all in her path. Of course, everyone knew this already, but that didn't stop them. They continued to patiently wait in fire's path, willingly being burnt to the ground in exchange for those few seconds of infinite light. And he's been close to joining that queue as well. But something stopped him. Because when he looked closely he realised it wasn't just in her eyes, but in her being, in her existence. Her eyes not only dead, but sad as well. Her body moves with unstoppable energy, but he can't help but get the impression that underneath all the light and movement and fire, she is tired and already past the point of no return.

So many seem to want to save her, to be the glue that puts her back together, but she ducks and avoids them and continues to burn. And because she's on fire and always burning, he wonders if it's even possible for her to stop now or for her flames to be extinguished. He isn't so sure. Because apart from her deadness, her only being is the flames. And without the vibrancy of the fire and the light, he doesn't know what she is. And she doesn't seem to either. Now she's just fire and emptiness, so without the fire perhaps she's nothing. He wonders if she simply needs the fire to stay alive, that without being the fuel for her own eventual destruction, she is nothing.

He realises that her existence is now dependent on the fire which she is nothing without. And everyone watching her and admiring her is helping to feed the fire, making it stronger and more inescapable than ever. And sometimes when he gazes into her eyes, he also detects fear; she is scared of what she is, of what she's become and what she's doing to them all. But it's too late for her. She can't stop because that would mean extinguishing the flames. And she is the flames. She is the fire. And without the fire, she is nothing.

So she continues to burn and burn and burn, dazzling and destroying everything regardless. And he just watches, horrified, as she becomes more and more consumed by the flames until eventually, she burns out and breaks. And he was right all along, she is nothing without the fire. She is gone.


	3. Cliches

"We're such fucking cliches, you know," he observes, laughing as hands her the cigarette he's just lit and then lights another for himself.  
**  
**"Oh I know," she replies, with a similar and slightly bitter laugh, as she inhales and then exhales the smoke faster than she knows is socially acceptable.

"I somehow don't care any more about it, though. I just think that we are who we are and we're doing the best we can," he states, taking her hand and leading her to a bench that still glistened with the rain of the night before.

"We could try harder, though..." she adds, breaking the silence and leaning into him after stubbing out her cigarette. He wraps his free arm around her frail body and hopes that this will warm her up. It is a warm August night and she is shivering. He looks intently at her before replying.

"We could, I know..." he answers, and though he doesn't say it out loud, both know that there's an underlying 'but' in there somewhere.

"Yeah," is her reply, and she sighs and closes her eyes and hopes that maybe someday she'll know how to argue with what isn't being said. She hopes that eventually she'll come up with a good enough reason to save herself and to make him want to save himself too. But that day isn't today, and so she simply leans into him and places her head on his shoulder and allows him to envelope her into the comforting sadness that both can't help but embrace.


	4. Ice

"You're warm," he tells her, as he wraps his arms around her.

"I'm not." she replies, shooting him a challenging look. He sighs and kisses the top of her head.

"You are, though." he argues and she rolls her eyes at how, just like her, he always wants to have the last word.

"No I'm not," she once again replies, giggling slightly because she knows this is silly.

"You are," he argues back with a grin, smiling not only because of the ridiculousness of their supposed argument but because she's laughing and because she honestly is warm and holding her feels nice.

"I'm not," she once again replies with a giggle, except this time she holds onto his as tightly as he's holding her. He kisses her on the cheek and the two simply stand there wrapped around each other and everything's all quiet and comfortable. And it's warm because she's warm too, he wants to remind her, but right now he doesn't feel like keeping up their playful argument, he just wants to hold her tightly and never let her go because in spite of himself he cannot help but love this stubborn, witty girl with the galaxies of freckles, red hair and sparkling blue eyes that reveal all that her words do not.

He gently presses his lips to her forehead and she sighs contentedly, because despite everything he is still there and he is still arguing with her and even after all these years his arms have the capability to drown out all feelings of fragility she usually cannot suppress when alone. She knows it's incredibly dangerous to need anybody the way she needs Scorpius, so she believes that it makes sense to protect what they have by keeping quiet, by refusing to voice what it really is that's going on with them now, and has been going on them for ever such a long time, really. She hopes that he knows, though, she hopes that he can see it in the way she's able to hold him and play fight with him and laugh with him and smile and kiss him and look deep into his stormy grey eyes and see him more clearly than ever she has seen anybody, and that looking back, she's inviting him to do the same. She can't say it, she can't say it quite yet. But it's there. It's there and she hopes he knows that.


	5. Poets

You are in your newest and sparkliest dress and the stars are shining down on you, creating kaleidoscope-like patterns on those around you. You are the eighties disco glitter ball in the middle of the room, managing to simultaneously be the centre of attention and to be ignored as though you are simply supposed to be there; you are a dancefloor norm, nothing more than that. And for just that moment, that is all you want, for just that moment you are happy to simply exist only within yourself, to revolve around yourself and to have no misconceptions or idealisms to concern yourself with. You find it strangely freeing in that moment, although you know that within seconds that will change and you will find yourself considering it poetically lonely, you will find yourself romanticising the isolation whilst overlooking the circumstances...

And now you're sighing, because that is what you have been doing all night, that is why you showed up to your favourite cousin's wedding all alone. You are romanticising your poetic sadness and dwelling on the isolated loneliness and you are using those feelings as a comfort blanket, much like the one your grandmother knitted that you have owned since birth. You are finding solace in the metaphors you are creating for yourself and you are likening yourself to inanimate objects. That isn't to say you wouldn't be doing this otherwise, but if it hadn't been for Two AM's ultimate fear of entrapment, you would be sharing your words, or at least shaping them into something full bodied, multi faceted and in some way beautiful. You would be cringing at your fragmented metaphors and personification of the early hours, you would be laughing at yourself and he would be laughing too- not at you, but at your shortsightedness, as he liked to call it, at your inability to see yourself as you truly are.

But that would too often spark an argument between the two of you, you would immediately attack him, you would angrily inform him that you are more than the person he has decided you are and that by assuming superior knowledge, he is degrading you as a person. And he would be trying to calm you down, trying to explain himself, trying to explain his perceptions of you, trying to tell you how the world sees you. He would never back down, though, he would never take his words back because that wasn't what he did, that isn't who he is and that isn't who you are either and you both know it. And you would shout at him that you do not need to be told who you are by anybody, because only you ought to be allowed to judge yourself, that nobody else's perceptions would ever be relevant. But your voice would shake as you stated that last line, because you'd be aware of the lie even before it spilled from your lips. Because one person's opinion does matter, because in spite of everything you want to believe, you do care about one person's perception of you. He is that one person and he is standing in front of you and his perception and opinion scares you because you worry he's put you up on some kind of pedestal. Of course, being as stubborn and opinionated as you are, it's not as though you've ever asked him what his opinion of you truly is; and being as secretly insecure as you are, it's not as though you've ever even let yourself hope that you're the girl with the sapphire eyes and the words of some kind of angel that he so often writes about in his poems.

And in this all too common scenario, you are now quiet because you are closer to tears that you would like to be and you can't let him know that, so you try to walk away. But he does know that, because he does know you, so he tries to comfort you, taking your hand and stopping you from walking away and you shake him off and tell him to leave you alone. And you're hoping he knows you both mean it and don't mean it all at the same time, and that he'll know to interpret it as only leaving you alone for a few minutes at the most, because you hope that he knows how dangerously sad you get after arguments, how sometimes words aren't enough and that scares you both.

He joins you in the other room just a minute later and he holds you close because he does know, and you know that he knows and yet you still can't let yourself give in and admit that he does know you, because you just can't understand how if he knows you he still wants to be with you. You've seen him at his worst and weakest, and he's seen you at your worst and weakest and yet part of you still can't rationalise why he's still there. You may have had to comfort him countless times before, but a part of you still doesn't expect him to be there when you need him.

But he would be and he was and he is.

And you're still thinking about it as you stand completely still alone in the middle of the crowded dance floor and then you turn around and you realise that he is there too, that he has entered the room and is looking for you and you're scared and excited and you feel all wobbly but also happy and you can't find the right words to express how you're feeling except that perhaps, aside from cliches, there aren't any.

And just before he reaches you, you remember why the pair of you fought at two AM that morning and suddenly you're terrified again because upon seeing his face you realise how completely wrong you were when you refused to say the words back and refused to admit that you needed him the same way that he needed you. And the worst part is that you realise how completely right he was and you always hate admitting he was right but you know that there is no avoiding it this time, because he was right in all the best ways possible and in the nineteen hours since your two AM argument you've somehow realised that you've felt that way for him for ever such a long time, and that maybe it's time for you to swallow your pride and to hold him tightly and to say the words back to him at last... but you hesitate because you know that once you've said it, there's no going back. But he's still there and he's almost close enough to touch and you're still deciding whether or not to take the leap and just say it or whether to simply go for a few similes and metaphors that mean almost the same.

But now he's holding you tightly and you're holding him tightly and the only words that immediately come to mind are the most overused and terrifying three words in the english language, and because you're a poet too, you wonder at their simplicity, you wonder if there are better ways to say it. And there probably are, but no one's written them yet, and that includes the two of you. And now that you're aware of the truth and the reality of them, the words envelope you and fill you up and you're gasping for air in a good way so you take a deep breath and you whisper them to him. And as you do that, it feels like nothing else, because you aren't afraid of saying the words after all because they are true and they are real and they are returned. Because you do love him and he loves you and it might be scary and unpredictable and downright idiotic, but it is the truth and it is a beautiful truth and for once, simplicity has overcome complexity. And as the two of you dance together, you whisper the words to each other again and again, sometimes even throwing in the occasional "everything is going to be alright" that both of you have always craved to hear. And it's uncertain, but it's hopeful and you both finally believe it, you both finally believe that it will all be alright and you both finally understand that sometimes, the togetherness of two poets does not have to end in tragedy and bitter words. And it isn't perfect, but you both know it's as near to perfect as you've ever wanted it to be, so that's okay. And it feels like nothing you've ever felt before and even though you know you have more irrational and completely unapologetic fights ahead of you, it's all okay because you can always return to this place, to the twinkling lights and the true words and the realisation that sometimes things do not have to be complicated, that sometimes it's better to live the poetry before writing it, because sometimes you can be so so wrong about a person. Because sometimes, despite everything, you are writing the right things about each other and you really should be making it clear that your poems are for him, just as he should make it clear that his poems are for you. You are both fragile and you are both unsure and you are both insecure and you are both stubborn and you are both scared.

You are also both in love and you also both secretly believe that that will make it all alright, just as you both know that tonight will shape every poem you ever write from now on. This moment has shaped both of your lives and, as you have both come to realise, it's scary but it's okay.


	6. Maybe

"I want to be unforgettable." she simply states as she fixes her lipstick before looking him directly in the eye. Her expression makes it clear that she means what she's saying, as does her outfit, which is even more eye-catching than usual.

"I think you've succeeded." he states dryly, looking down at his feet and avoiding her fierce and incredibly sincere sparkling blue eyes.

"Look at me, please." she says quietly and he looks, as he looks up at the intimidating readhead, for just one second he sees her expression isn't as tough as usual. But then it's back and she's standing before him with her hands on her hips and her usual challenging expression etched across her unforgettable face.

"I'm looking." he replies, his lips curling into a small smile as she rolls her eyes before staring right back into his.

Neither speaks for a few moments afterwards but the two silently move closer so that they're almost touching, almost forehead to forehead, nose to nose and mouth to mouth. And she's almost in his arms. Not quite, though. This is the way it's been between the two of them for a while, always almost but never quite. There isn't a big, dramatic reason for this, it's just the way it is because it's the way it is. Understated and simple and never quite there.

As he looks into her pretty blue eyes he thinks about how easily it could be the other way round, that he could have so easily become the loud, dynamic, tough, sparkling boy and she could have been the gentle, quiet, understated girl. That's not the way it is, though, and nobody really knows why she is fire and he is not quite ice when they have had so much in common. They'd had similar upbringings in famous families with loving parents and magic and laughter. They shared similar friends. They were even in the same house at Hogwarts and liked the same lessons, excelled at similar things and shared a sense of humour. Things like that weren't what had caused him to be the boy who wanted nothing more than to fade away into the background and her to be the girl so terrified of being forgotten about that she essentially sets herself on fire because who could forget a burning girl? Stuff happens and most of it doesn't make any sense.

She is fire most of the time and usually he is almost ice. The 'almost' is the key thing here, you see. Because he's not exactly ice and nor is he anything else. He doesn't actually know what he is, but he knows it isn't the silent coldheartedness and indifference he displays to most of the world. Then again, maybe Rose isn't exactly fire either, maybe the metaphors don't quite work because maybe she isn't quite fire and he isn't quite ice and maybe the space in her not filled by fire is filled by whatever the space in him not filled by ice is. And maybe it's something completely different. All he knows is that he's pretty sure she's more than just a beautiful girl who needs to be noticed for everything that she thinks she is and maybe he's more than a quiet boy who would quite happily cease to exist for a while, maybe forever. Maybe.

It's hard to tell, though, especially when they're still walking that tightrope between where they have been for the last decade and where they could be if one of them just moved a little. And that's when he's more struck than usual by the strange thought that he's known her all this time without ever really knowing her just as she's known his without ever really knowing him either. It's weird, their friendship. Maybe it doesn't have to be so strange but maybe it does. There are just so many maybes and that's sort of intimidating. And also it isn't. The maybes are also potential, in a way. They could be more, perhaps. Maybe they could get to know each other for real, maybe one day she'd let him on the secret and tell him what it is she's hiding and burning with her fire and maybe one day he'll let her in past the icey numbness to the raw things that he's been suppressing for so long. Maybe.

But unless one of them makes a move, they'll be on this tightrope forever. She'll shine and burn and etch herself into the memories of everybody and he'll fade out more and more until there's nobody left to miss him when he's gone. And he won't be happy and maybe she won't be either. He gets the impression she isn't entirely happy now, you see. The strange look on her face is becoming more and more common and a part of him also thinks that in her mission to make sure that nobody forgets her, she's somehow forgotten herself. He isn't really cold at all and maybe she isn't really so dangerously on fire but both of them are alone right now. So alone. Because in spite of their proximity, they are so far apart and maybe that needs to change. Maybe he needs to stop denying his existence and maybe she needs to stop proclaiming hers so desperately. Maybe they need to learn just to be. And maybe they can help each other with that.

So he moves. He leans forward slightly and brushes his lips against hers. It's tiny and it's brief and it's so hesitant it almost isn't there at all and then he moves away very slowly, stopping when he's still so close they're still nearly touching. But it's exactly what she needs and it's exactly what he needs and it causes her to gently put her arms around his neck and pull his face down closer to hers and give him a similar kiss right back. It's then that he puts his arms round her waist and pulls her closer and the two begin to deepen their kiss. It isn't hesitant any more, it's almost desperate. Because he's wanted to do this for a really long time and so has she but neither has felt able to do so until today and he won't tell her this yet but when he's with her he feels more alive and she's not ready to tell him this yet but when she's near him she feels so much calmer and more okay with not existing quite so obviously and this all just feel so right to both of them.

When they both come up for air a little while later, he looks into her eyes and there's something there that hadn't been there before he'd made that move and her expression is so calm and beautiful and it's strange to see her not pulling a face or self consciously attempting to make herself prettier than she thinks she is even though she's wrong and she's more beautiful now in this moment because hopefully she isn't thinking about not being forgotten because she knows he'll never be able to forget her ever. And he doesn't want to be forgotten by her either. More than anyone else, he needs to be remembered by Rose. Because right now she's the most important person in his world and in all honesty, she has been since he first met the bossy redhead on the train on their way to Hogwarts and she'd informed him that they would be friends whether he liked it or not and he'd just nodded and smiled because he wanted nothing more than to get to know this scary eleven year old girl. And he had got to know her, and now he felt he knew her better than ever he had before. He can't explain it, not really. And that's okay.

"You've stolen some of my lipstick," she comments, touching his lips with her finger briefly, gently tracing the dark purple shadows beneath his horribly sleep deprived eyes with another finger.

"I'm wearing it better than you ever did," he jokingly replies, kissing her finger. And she giggles and then grins because this is the first time in far too long that Scorpius has said anything good about himself, even a silly comment like this one. It isn't much but it's a start. So she puts another hand to his face and pulls him closer towards her, attaching his lips to hers once more and almost drowning in how she feels both so alive and so calm at the same time and how nothing has ever felt more right than his hands running through her hair and his lips on hers and the way he's smiling through this kiss and she's happy and he's happy and it's been so long since they were both happy.

* * *

_**Review?**_


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